Consul
April snowstorm closes down the
sky;
white roofs, trees, lawn
I put the heat on
and sit
with a book by
Malcolm Lowry: UNDER THE VOLCANO.
The Consul, Hugh, Yvonne
in Quauhnahuac and
on the bus to Tomalin
with the pelado
who steals
from the dying Indian...
Una mescal pour le Consul
mais pour moi
una espresso
as I am on the wagon
under the volcano
abelow vultures that float like
scraps of burnt paper overhead
on this Day of the Dead, 1939.
Popcatepetl looks on, impassive
as humanity
to the unfolding tragedy
in Spain and Germany
and in the Farolito where
el Consul goes drinks among
the Indians, and
meets his doom
too.
Charles Jr.
in a past life
I was the Lindbergh baby,
s'why I am traumatized by
enclosed spaces,
like the one the kidnappers
put me into--
not Hauptmann
that poor sap
and not Lindy, my father
(what a jerk he could be!)
but two guys
one named Muggsy,
one whose name I did not catch,
the bastard who strangled me
dead--
s'why I am afraid of
strangers,
why I have never liked wearing
a neck-tie.
Driller
sky yawning in the
jackhammered morning--
air compressor hissing;
staccato wha wha
wha and
drill bits chipping away
in the concrete day:
heat from the machines
in my face; Green Mountains of
Vermont in my line of sight:
this is what I was born for?
Breaking rocks on the Great Highway?
No comments:
Post a Comment